Hummel Quest: The Desert Fox
by ChardFox
Summary: Hummel Quest origin story, revealing the tale behind Fox, the 501st Heavy Panzer Battalion, and the North African desert campaign.
1. 1 - An Endless Sky

The night was sharp to the touch, an endless sky scarred with distant stars that were interrupted only by the horizons and the passing of the moon. The biting cold of such a desolate night granted a welcome reprieve from the searing desert sun, and the Heavy tank slowly closed his vision ports as the night air flooded his engine's intakes. A blissful serenity descended upon the hulking figure, but the faint sound of grinding tracks brought him back into the moment. Opening his vision ports, the Tiger resumed his observations of the land ahead from his vantage point atop a gently sided sand dune. The sound of tracks, now accompanied by the clanking of a laboured 12 cylinder Maybach engine, grew steadily in volume as a Panzer III clawed its way up the dune behind his overwatch partner. After some moments, the German medium tank crested the ridge, and dug his tracks into the sand, assuming a more comfortable position in preparation for the night shift.

"About fucking time Jonat, I was in danger of having a nice peaceful night under the stars," spoke the Tiger, a hint of humour dancing from his tongue as he slightly traversed his turret in the direction of the recently arrived Panzer.

"Dreadfully sorry to intrude, oh mighty Herr Fox, but I'm not allowed to leave you by yourself. The Battalion is concerned that you might die of old age, with no one nearby to salvage you for parts," replied the smaller tank, determined to somehow mock the Tiger's recent promotion and upgrade.

The cheeky shit, Fox thought with a grin. Despite their now substantial difference in tier, Jonat was just as experienced in combat as Fox, and always had a different perspective on situations that the Heavy tank found strategically and tactically invaluable. Jonat was, in fact, due several upgrades himself. In regards to tier, he should have been equal to his Heavy counterpart, yet he retained his dated chassis for a number of reasons.

Firstly, he was waiting for the delivery of Panther tanks into the desert theatre. He had seen the various prototype mediums currently available in combat, and had been underwhelmed by their performance.

Secondly, the theatre of war within which they resided was a relatively unique one. Supply chains were incredibly difficult to maintain during defensive operations, let alone an offensive push, and spare parts were always at a premium. The Panzer III was the workhorse of Panzerarmee Afrika, and as such it had the greatest number of available spares. Too many times had the pair seen immobilized but perfectly recoverable vehicles abandoned due to a shortage of replacement parts. Interestingly, it was the prototype medium tanks which most often suffered such a fate.

Finally, Jonat liked his current form; The Panzer III was relatively agile and fast, allowing for rapid flanking attacks and reactive defensive manoeuvres in support of the Tigers of the 501st Heavy Tank Battalion, and Jonat relished the challenge of engaging the British Cruiser tanks in a similarly classed vehicle. The Tiger, as he never failed to remind Fox, was not giving the enemy a sporting chance, and where was the fun in that.

But this war was no game. They both knew that.


	2. 2 - Changing of Address

As the blackened sky mellowed into shades of soft navy and cobalt, faint traces of kicked up dust could be seen off in the distance, betraying the movements of British and Commonwealth supply trucks and reinforcements desperately trying to reach their destinations before the sun crested the horizon.

"Never on time anymore," Jonat noted with a tone of almost disappointment. "Two years ago they'd have moved an entire regiment right under our noses, and we'd not even notice until HQ got a changing of address card."

"Can't say we're much better anymore," replied Fox, nodding rearwards towards a thin column of acrid black smoke the rose high into the sky. "I guess they've been worn down just as hard as we have."

Fox's short range radio crackled to life.

"Oberstleutnant? "

"Stabsfeldwebel, what can I do for you this fine morning?"

"I hate to ruin your mood so early in the day, Sir, but Oberst Junker has decided to grace us with his presence. Reports are he'll be here by 1300 hours, sounds like command has been scheming again."

A subdued groan crept out of Fox's exhaust pipes.

"Scheiße. Alright Hania, I'm on my way down. Let next watch know they're to relieve Jonat and I at once and pull an extended shift. Also find the nearest Unteroffizier that doesn't look busy, and get him to scavenge whatever high-octane gasoline we can spare. Can't have the Oberst arrive without all the comforts of high command in place."

"Jawohl Herr Kommandant. Anything else?"

"Now you come to mention it, I want you on standby to rescue me if the Oberst becomes insufferable. Have Vogel take a recruit out on your patrol instead. Also remind him that if he intentionally loses another recruit in the desert, I'll have him court martialed. Danke Stabsfeldwebel."

"Of course, Sir."

As the radio silenced, the Heavy tank stared silently into the boundless sky. Why, he mused, given all of the space in the universe; the millions of blazing stars, spiraling galaxies and vast planets, did he have to suffer the company of Oberst Junker. Bloody aristocracy, all formalities and class, terrified to get their hands dirty. Fox's train of thought was suddenly derailed by a series of metallic clinking noises.

"I don't know what you're snickering at Jonat, i'm keeping you beside me the whole bloody time. I shall not suffer that man alone."

The snickering stopped.

—

"For the love of all that is holy and serene would you please keep up!" ranted Vogel as he came to a stop for the third time that hour. He was not patient at the best of times, and today seemed to be a particularly hot day.

"Yes Stabsfeldwebel, sorry Stabsfeldwebel. It's just… I find it difficult to keep up with a tank as magnificent at yours!" called out the young recruit he had in tow, who was some way behind by this point.

"First of all, enough with the persistent 'Stabsfeldwebel'ing. This isn't basic training anymore, and we are in the middle of the bloody desert. We've all been out here too long to care about protocol, I don't even want you to call me sir, just Vogel. Secondly, if you stopped getting lost in thought and started driving in straight lines, you might do a better job with the whole keeping up thing."

"Yes si… er… Vogel… sorry."

"And stop with the bloody apologising. Just keep your eyes out for the Inselaffe, and try to keep up. Hell, what was your name again?"

"…Ehrlichmann."

"Even your name is inconvenient," Vogel muttered under his breath as he revved the Luchs' engine and made off to continue the patrol. After a few moments of sitting there uncomfortably, the smaller Panzer I Ausf. C realised he should probably be following, and hurriedly set off to catch up.


	3. 3 - Desert Tomb

"Drive! Schnell! This way damn you!" Screamed Vogel, as another shell erupted from the muzzle of the Quick Firing 6 pounder mounted in the turret of the Crusader that had crested the steep sided ridgeline to his right. The high velocity round buried itself in the sand three feet to the left of Ehrlichmann's hull, and he swerved steeply in the opposite direction in response.

*Crack*

Another shot screamed towards the fleeing recruit, as he yet again steered his tank in  
desperate evasive manuevers, all the while heading for Vogel's Luchs and the relative safety of the small rocky outcrop that the desert veteran was now using as cover.

*Crack* Barked Vogel's 5cm in return, the light tank's round flying harmlessly past the cruiser on the high ground, and broadcasting his previously inconspicuous position in a loud, and somewhat noticeable fashion. The return shell had certainly got the British tanks attention, as he now trained his main gun on the turret poking above a portion of the small sandstone formation. Ehrlichmann continued his flight, but his driving became far less erratic now that he wasn't the target of any incoming fire.

"Break right, kid. I've got his attention, just get yourself on the other side of that dune and wait for my instructions," came Vogel's voice calmly over the short range radio, just before another round from the Crusader slammed into the rocks and put an abrupt halt to the conversation.

*Crack* Came the retaliatory shot once again, this time striking the soft sand below and to the right of the Crusader. Seeming somewhat conscious of his noticeably exposed position, the Crusader rotated his tracks to angle what armour he had against the source of fire.

*Crack*

The Cruiser fired another, this time glancing an Armour Piercing round off the side of Vogel's turret, leaving a scar across his cheek, and resulting in a torrent of abusive language to get fired in return alongside the 5cm shell.

"I'm behind the dune! What now?" called out Ehrlichmann over the radio, as his light tank slid to a halt now out of the Crusader's line of sight.

"Now, my dear child, you watch and you learn," came the reply. "Now come here you no-good mother-fuckin' piece of limey Britischer sheisse," he muttered, albeit not softly, under his breath. There was a loud thud of rock on metal as another 6 pounder shell struck the outcrop, showering the Luchs in rough chunks of beige coloured stone and dust. The dirt cloud cleared just enough for the Light tank to reacquire his target, and his muzzle flashed bright white and burnt orange as it catapulted the next round towards the Desert Rat.

The response was a muffled boom as the High Explosive round buried itself in the soft sand beneath the Cruiser and detonated, sending him crashing and tumbling forward down the ridge he had so recently occupied. The onlooking Germans soon lost sight of their foe beneath the falling dust, and they approached cautiously with Vogel leading; an armour piercing round chambered, and his barrel trained on the settling cloud of sand. There was nothing left. The desert became his tomb.

Jonat was pursued all morning by an inescapable feeling of irritation. He felt as if he were in the middle of a sandstorm, rendered useless by the elements, forced to wait for its far too distant passing. The sandstorm was, of course, the meeting that would take place that very afternoon. The howling, screeching wind was Oberst Junker. He drove into the spacious command tent with a bitter look emblazoned across his mantlet, kicking up as much dust as he felt he could get away with, and came to an abrupt halt next to the map table that dominated the centre of the canvas room. He said nothing.

"Oh stop sulking you miserable fucker, it's one afternoon. You know that I'll do everything in my power to make his visit as brief as possible." Fox's comment did nothing to alleviate the overt misery that emanated from every inch of the medium tank. Turning his attention away from Jonat, Fox went back to studying the map spread before him. The two passed several minutes in silence, both lost in their thoughts, both trying to ignore the hellish afternoon set before them, before another tank entered the tent.

"Morning patrols all just radioed in, only one contact so far, everyone else called in clear. Vogel and Ehrlichmann, no casualties, one Crusader knocked out. 6 pounder gun this time, their upgrades must have come in this last week, would explain the increase in supply trucks. Unrecoverable, so he says."

The Luchs that sat now in the entranceway to the command tent was Stabsfeldwebel Hania, a veteran of the Desert theatre, and one of the finest marksmen markswomen in the Battalion (A peculiar accolade, considering her use of a 3cm autocannon, and the prevalence of longer barrelled armaments amongst the medium and heavy tanks in the 501st). It was unusual for her to appear alone - she and Vogel were almost inseparable both on and off the battlefield - though that was Fox's doing. Vogel was not a patient man, and Fox didn't want any conflict arising between the Stabsfeldwebel and their esteemed guest.

Compared to the two tanks stood before her, Haniah appeared to be in better than factory condition. Her desert brown and dark grey camouflage scheme was almost perfect, complemented by a light sheen of sand that seemed to perpetually coat her. The sandstorm tarp, made of canvas and matching in colour, was tied tightly just to the rear of the engine deck, so it didn't exaggerate her silhouette, nor block the traverse of her turret. Camouflage netting, typically draped across every armoured surface for combat ops, was tied in thin bundles at the top of every metal plate that compromised her hull so that it was barely noticeable. She could find spare parts in a sea full of sand; anything that broke, she fixed, anything useful, she took. She was at once an eagle and a vulture, ruthless and cunning, and the desert was her feeding ground. Fox liked having her around.

"Any word on the Oberst?" came Fox's voice.

"Still on track for 1300, just about an hour out according to the last report." The Tiger turned his turret from the tent entrance to the medium tank situated to his left as she finished speaking.

"Jonat, call all patrols back to base. I want static scouts in entrenched positions along gridline three, with support from the 39th Panzerjager Battalion along grids one and two. Composition as they see fit," the Heavy tank spoke whilst motioning to various positions on the map spread out before him and his companions.

"We going dark for a while? I don't much enjoy the idea of being blind." Jonat spoke with a hint of caution, experience had taught him the value of good reconnaissance and intelligence, and his reluctance to poke out their eyes and cover their ears visibly displayed itself in the uncomfortable posture he adopted.

"I don't relish the idea either, but I don't want to get drawn out into an open skirmish with Junker around to pull rank and endanger my men. I'd much rather have him dictate a static defense, should he choose to take command." Jonat relaxed slightly. The order made sense, but even so he spent the next few moments thinking it over to ensure there were no obvious flaws, other than the risks inherent in fighting an unknown enemy, in unknown quantities, from a static position.

"What about rapid response teams?" enquired Jonat.

"Have 5th Panzer Regiment take both flanks, we'll take the centre. Choose four Tigers, send two to each reaction group."

"They're still spread thin."

"There's enough for a mobile defence. I'd be more worried about us in the middle with the Oberst if I were you," the Heavy tank spoke, with a faint grin.

"Ahh who knows, maybe he'll have acquired himself an honour guard by now. We could be sitting pretty with his help." Jonat spoke with a growing smirk, and he was almost chuckling to himself as he put his engine into gear and headed for the exit of the tent. Haniah traversed her tracks and moved backwards to allow the Major to pass, and re-entered once he had gone. It was almost time.


	4. 4 - Sanguine Stripes

Chapter 4

"What the fuck."

Jonat stared in disbelief at the armoured column before him as it approached the threshold of 501st Battalion Headquarters. Driving two-abreast, the formation of ten uniformly camouflaged tanks in seemingly perfect condition were quite an imposing sight, especially given the somewhat humble nature of the command post itself. The three small sandstone and mud-brick buildings, one of which was half destroyed, were only complimented by a small selection of canvas tents and tarps. From here, the 55 tanks of the 501st Schwere Panzer-Abteilung were refuelled, rearmed, and repaired ready for frontline combat. Tanks were, for the most part, expected to sleep in dug-in hull-down positions with nothing more than their tarp for cover; but one small tent was set aside for the use of those recovering from serious injuries. Alongside that tent was the repair-bay, a slightly larger affair made of the same sand worn, desert brown material, and distinguishable only by its three-walled nature (The fourth wall was tied atop the tent, and the gap served as the entrance. The wall could be untied and pinned down in the event of a sandstorm). Several rows of ammunition boxes and fuel drums were behind here, covered by heavily camouflaged tarp, netting, and half buried in sand. Opposite lay the three buildings; one acted as the communications centre, the second was used to store the many barrels of water necessary for a desert fighting force, and the half collapsed third was useful only to shield one side of the command tent which stood next to it.

Lining the road, if the track-made pathway could be called such, that led to the command tent were a number of the 501st with barrels raised in salute. It was through this arch that the Oberst and his escort drove, past the Panzer II's and III's, and onto the Heavy tanks of the battalion. Here stood Fox, at the end of the line, flanked by Jonat and Haniah. Junker stopped before them, his honour-guard-resembling escort pulling up in perfect time, and accepted a salute from the three tanks to his front.

"What a beacon of civilisation," the officer looked around, barely attempting to disguise the disgust in his voice and in his physical expressions. After a brief pause, just long enough for the quiet to become uncomfortable and for the dust to settle, he spoke again."Well? Are you going to offer me a drink? Or have you become just as uncivilised as this wretched place?".

"Of course, Herr Oberst. I have brought together whatever High Octane Fuel I could find just for your arrival. This way, please." (*1) The Tiger's voice had a very slight quality to it, one of a faintly implied sarcasm, that was only noticed by the veterans of the 501st who were so used to their commanders mannerisms. Not that it was necessary to adopt any kind of tone of voice, the fact that he was being polite and proper at all radiated sarcasm in volumes, and caused more than a few smirks behind the Oberst's back. One of the Heavy Tanks even had to fake a short coughing fit to cover up the snicker he was barely able to contain. Fox grinded his treads, rotating on the spot to face the command tent behind him. He called over his shoulder before leading the Oberst onwards. "Rohr, escort the Oberst's men to the depot and see that they are well supplied. Allow them access to all that we can spare."

"Jawohl, Mein Kommandant!" came the reply. Fox's engine revved harshly, and the Tiger clawed its way forward with their esteemed guest in tow. Haniah, Jonat, and a third tank followed close behind.

"Take as much fuel and water as you need, you can set up camp anywhere around here. If you need repairs or parts come and find me, and i'll direct you to someone who can provide them. Questions? No? Good." Hauptmann Rohr held himself confidently in front of the peculiar array of mostly prototype tanks arranged in front of him, scanning his barrel across the line as his rough voice growled out the information.

"Who do you think we are, to talk to us in such a callous manner!?" spat one of the smaller tanks to his right, a medium tank that lurched forwards in a display of rage. Venomous words spewed forth as he vocally reprimanded the Heavy for lacking respect and dedication to protocol, his engine growling louder with each passing word. Rohr drove off mid-sentence without saying a word, his casual and self-assured mannerism pushing the medium even further into pure unchecked anger.

"Where do you think you're going? I demand you return at once! I'll have you court-martialed for this, you - you impotent wretch!" Rohr turned a corner and disappeared behind one of the canvas tents, and a silence briefly descended upon the line of tanks, the medium still fuming as his engine temperature rose unhealthily in the desert sun.

"I hate you," came the brittle voice from the larger tank to his left, who proceeded to kick up a large amount of sand before slowly moving off in the direction Rohr had taken. The offended medium looked around for support, and found it amongst his two similarly classed medium tanks. The rest of the column seemed indifferent, and they moved to the Supply dump to replenish the fuel and water used in their long desert trek. Rohr hadn't got far, and the tank who set off in pursuit didn't take long to catch up. The Tiger heard him coming, stopped, and turned to face the impressive vehicle in tow.

This was Hauptmann Zorner. Amongst the Oberst's Honour Guard he was an outcast; he cared little for protocol, he had vast battlefield experience, and he wasn't from a wealthy or aristocratic background. If anything, he fit in with the 501st and the frontline troops of Panzerarmee Afrika far better than he fit in with his current company. It was even noted that the Oberst cared little for his callous mannerisms, and was often quick to reprimand the appearance or conduct of the hulking medium tank. Yet still he remained in service, because there was not a tank alive that could match him toe-to-toe. Sure Zorner was a fine marksman; but his real talent, where he really showed his true colours, was in close combat. Up close and personal, he was nigh undefeatable. And it showed.

Where the other tanks that had arrived in the armoured column that afternoon were in pristine condition, flawless to the smallest detail and fanatical about remaining so, Zorner kept his battle scars. The E50 medium tank prototype was designed in response to the up-gunning of Soviet tanks on the eastern front, and was supposed to fill the gap left between the newly introduced Tiger II and Panther tanks. Weighing in at 60 tons, and larger than most Heavy tanks, it posed a formidable sight. The angle of the hull armour was steep, and a wedge of thick steel protruded like a blade from the front of the tank. Here large scars tore across the E50's frontal plate, trophies of tanks impaled and destroyed in a most violent fashion.

Zorner's hull was flame-licked and battered, the steel seeming to tear its way out from beneath the Panzer Grey and hastily applied Desert Brown paint as if it were alive. Short sanguine stripes were roughly painted in vertical lines over the front hull-edge, one for each foe dispatched by his 'blade', and white stripes circled his barrell for each kill at range. A white silhouette of an Antelope was painted on the left side of his turret just forward of the balkenkreuz, and the number "003" mirrored it on the right side. A canvas tarp was folded and tied to the rear of the sloped turret, and lengthy metal cables were bolted to the side of the hull. Aside from the scars emblazoned across the frontal hull armour of the German, marks from shell glances and shrapnel were abundant. Both exhaust pipes featured rough-torn holes as decoration, and there had clearly been multiple repairs of injuries sustained to the engine deck. Rumour had it that the heavily accented leviathan was immortal, and standing before him, you'd be hard pressed to disagree.

"Need something?" Rohr spoke with a hint of bored reluctance as he studied the tank before him, but it was mostly for show. The veteran Tiger was not intimidated easily, but Zorner unnerved him.

"I was hoping you'd be able to point me in the direction of something a bit more high-octane, travelling across a fucking desert with that lot for company has left me in need of a drink." The medium tank's voice was reassuringly humorous beneath the cloak of a Germanic-South African accent, and Rohr let out a small chuckle.

"As long as they aren't coming with you, right this way."

(*1) .


	5. 5 - Dying Stars

Flames clawed and tore at the thick, black, night air; rending and cleaving the sea of darkness with blades of light, and bathing two hulking grey figures in the colour of dying stars. Two tanks rested there, speaking in hushed tones interjected with muffled, clattering laughter. The flickering light cast deep shadows on the hull and turret of the leftmost vehicle, a Tiger, disguising his bulk and accentuating the sharp metallic edges of his chassis. The countless scars and points of wear and tear seemed more prevalent by fire-light, and Rohr certainly looked every bit the veteran that he was. By the light of the sun the welding marks could often go unnoticed, covered by freshly added coats of paint, but the shadows of the fire and the dark orange light seemed to highlight them. Most prevalent of these was a crack down the left side of his gun mantlet, welded from top to bottom in a jagged and slightly diagonal line, which seemed to move as he spoke. Every surface was adorned with field modifications; spare segments of track were strung across his lower glacis plate and the sides of his turret, clinging on more precariously to his left flank having received some serious combat damage. Field binoculars were bolted atop his turret, folded down flat, and the ammo stowage bin at the rear had received a generous amount of armour plating, still seeming to retain parts of its original dark green colour despite the new brown and grey camouflage scheme. And he was drunk. Very drunk. And telling stories.

"...so between them they've got maybe one complete track, half a radio, a quarter pack of cigarettes, and 80 rounds of ammunition. They're back to back in this one fucking street, fucked up buildings on either side, and they dig in as hard as two tanks that can't move can. Knocking over bits of building, covered in masonry, and then they wait. That night, guess who decides to show up? The fucking 5th Guards Tank Army, for a surprise night attack, THROUGH the fucking city. So the ruskies start rolling on past and they both think fuck it, start unloading rounds into the front and the sides of the Red bastards as the column panics to shit. They can barely hear their own guns firing over the shouting between the Soviets, they're driving into walls, into each other, and it's so dark they can't work out where the shots are coming from. These two fucking Tigers fire every round they had, stopped an entire tank army by themselves through blocking the two mains roads with corpses, and then had to sit there for 2 motherfucking weeks because OKW simply refused to unblock the road until the Ruskies had been pushed back. They were so fucking mad."

Zorner made a concerted attempt to stop his giggling, "So they just left them there? Didn't fix them up or anything?". His peculiar hybrid accent combined with high-octane induced slurring turned Zorner into a vocally orchestral nightmare, though his meaning made it through the verbal soup.

"Nope, nothing. They managed to get some supplies to them, even considered giving them a couple of new radios until the abusive shouting got too much. Still you've gotta feel for the bastards."

The E50 sat there, a grin plastered across his gun mantlet. He liked Rohr. They were cut from the same steel, as the saying went, and the two shared a comfortable silence for a few moments before Zorner changed the topic. They still had plenty of stories and tales to tell, but they were getting more tired, and even more drunk.

"So, not looking to upgrade that old shell of yours?" the medium inquired, nodding at the scarred vertical surfaces of the Tiger; "Looks to me like you've earnt it, got more than your fair share of wounds".

"Fuck that noise" came the reply, "Hull like this 'be with you 'till the day you die. Every scar is a memory; a victory, a defeat. A friend lost, an enemy killed. I am my scars, and they are me, or some philosophy shit." Rohr swayed on his tracks, but held himself up in a way that radiated pride. "I wouldn't change it for the world".

"I know the feeling," came the reply, and silence descended upon the duo once more.

* * *

Ehrlichmann had never seen a tank get hit in the ammorack before. He'd never felt the searing heat of shells cooking off, torching and melting the guts of someone nearby, or blowing the turret clean off its ring. But today was a day of firsts.

In the chaos of battle he couldn't discern where the shot came from, he hadn't even noticed anyone get hit until the screaming. A high pitched whine of pressurised, burning gas leapt from the barrel and Commanders hatch of the Panzer III, melding with fuel-curdling cries of pain. The sound still echoed in his turret.

The Panzer I was as low to the ground as his suspension would allow, tucked up against his sandbag fortifications, and desperately firing bursts from his machine gun at the rows upon rows of British tanks advancing along flat ground, cresting ridgelines, and taking cover in depressions. At these ranges his fire wasn't going to penetrate anything, but his tracers marked targets for the tanks with higher calibre guns. The deafening roar of German guns barked around him, shaking the ground and kicking up dust as shells sought out targets. He could barely hear his radio as a voice erupted from it.

"Fire mission Ost is away, keep your turrets low 5th."

The light tank's suspension groaned as he tried to sink even lower, praying that the desert stands would swallow him up, and provide him solace from the coming storm.

The desert burst into flames.

* * *

Rohr and Zorner were atop a ridgeline west of the main defensive line, and heard the distant booming of the artillery volley as it engulfed the area to their east.

"I don't envy them," remarked Rohr, the latter part of his comment masked by the roar of the round he threw down range, and followed by a series of curses as his headache came back with a vengeance.

"Alright, so tell me ziss. Wass is worse, our headaches, having to listen to Oberst and the rest ov his fucking 'guard', or being anywhere near that artillery mission?" Zorner didn't move an inch, he was staring down his gun sights with a grimace as he checked and rechecked the shot he had lined up. The grimace was a result of his hangover, which at least matched Rohrs.

"Fuck, got to be number three." The Tiger was adjusting his tank and his optics to reduce the glare of the sun, which was doing nothing to help him recover from the previous night. "Got to be number three," he repeated, almost to himself, before firing again. "First week out here in the desert fighting up near Kasserine Pass, got ourselves stuck in an engagement with some newly arrived Yanks and a supporting Brit division. Took a while to clear 'em all out, but we built up some momentum and started pushing pretty hard. Turns out that's what they wanted, they fought a tactical withdrawal up to a point then dug in. That's when the shelling started." A distant boom, muffled by the thick desert air and kicked up sand, caused Rohr to twitch. "We lost half a division in that hellstorm, battery of 25 pounders fucked us up real good. That's how I got this scar." He vaguely motioned towards the mangled metal on his mantlet. "Felt like a direct hit, but could've been flying bits from the guy in front of me. One minute he was there, the next there was just fire and molten metal, bits of track and sheared armour plating. War sure is hell." Another shot rang out, and he hit a Cruiser dead centre in the hull. The shell gutted the light tank, passing straight out the other side and burying itself deep in a sand dune. The tank rolled to a stop, and black smoke poured out the entry and exit wounds.

Zorner finally fired. "All nine circles and then some," he said, as the 105mm gun sent a shell through the turret ring of a Matilda with the markings of an officer. Blazing fire engulfed the corpse as the fuel tank set alight, and he burned alive from the inside out


End file.
